Widows

by Ariel Dorfman

  The captain hesitated for an instant. He was aware of the stiff orderly beside him, the sergeant and the two guards at the entrance. It wasn’t the time to find out the history of the case. He had to show he was in control, absolute control, now.

  He strode into the anteroom with two huge steps, coming to the door of his own office. From there he turned around and gestured indifferently to the woman to follow him. He crossed the threshold decisively. While he was making himself comfortable in his chair, she had come in, dragging herself like a shadow.

  “All right,” said the captain. “He’s buried then. So you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “No,” she said, and he waited for the next word, a little more, but that negation hung there alone and echoless. The woman had nothing more to explain.

  “I don’t understand.” The captain was getting impatient. “Is your father buried or isn’t he?”

  “The soldiers buried him, but I didn’t.”

  “You weren’t present?”

  “Just the soldiers.”

  All of a sudden the captain realized what bothered him about this old woman, besides the nasty little mustache growing irritably on her lip, besides that little bend of the head that gave her gaze a special, malignant gleam. It was that she never blinked. He’d never seen her shut her eyes for a second: they were open, bigger than you’d have expected in a person that age. In the middle of those wrinkled sockets, they burned with a quiet fury, protruding from the black shawl, the wasted skin, and those petrified lids.

  “And you wished to be present, that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

  “The soldiers,” she said, very deliberately, “had no right to bury my father.”

  The captain suddenly realized he didn’t just feel confused. He also felt—it was impossible, where could such a sensation come from?—threatened, as if someone here or elsewhere were playing a trick on him. The father of this woman would have to be at least seventy, maybe older. It wasn’t the sort of problem the army would worry about. He rang the bell with nervous authority.

  “Captain?”

  He studied the orderly. According to Gheorghakis, he was worth his weight in gold. Knows the quirks of the local population, a man well trusted by Philip Kastoria, consult him on anything. Never failed me, peasants don’t like him, but born around here, aware of what goes on in these savages’ heads.

  “Call Lieutenant Constantopoulos.”

  The orderly looked briefly at the woman, then the captain, and saluted. Was there a faint smile on his mouth? The captain chose to ignore it. He lacked the confidence to ask for information when he’d only been in command one day. Later, perhaps, he’d see about that.

  He said to the woman, “We’re going to consult the lieutenant.”

  She didn’t answer. But he wasn’t willing to leave things like that. He wanted to zero in on this matter. “Because you’re not going to tell me that you had no time to prepare your father’s burial.”

  “I told Captain Gheorghakis. But he didn’t pay any attention. He ordered him buried like a nobody.”

  The captain decided to ignore her.

  He busied himself with the reports on his desk. Actually, the situation was quite calm. There had been no confrontations lately. The mop-up procedures were almost finished. The regime’s few adversaries, the ones still scattered about, seemed to have ceased their activities. Once more he read the analysis with which Captain Gheorghakis had concluded his report. Subversion was slowly moving to the cities or the larger towns, though it was just possible that the next weeks might register a last recurrence of violent acts and perhaps small meetings in out-of-the-way towns and villages. You could never be sure about the tactics the enemy might come up with. In any case, he had left the new commander a region secure from all armed terrorism, a region governed with an iron hand, well patrolled, a population with no alternative but to obey, actual and potential centers of rebellion eliminated, the military situation under control. It was the new captain’s job—in accordance with the general plan of the Supreme Government—to win the sympathies of the residents, begin a constructive phase of social and economic development, possible only now that the disruptive elements had been bled white by one defeat after another.

  “Good morning, Captain. With your permission.”

  Lieutenant Constantopoulos appeared in his spotless uniform, not sweating a drop, stiff as an arrow. He looked like his father. It was amazing how much he resembled the general. Even now one could see the stern features of that military family, the innate gift of command springing from his hands, from his powerful squared shoulders, from the efficient mathematical rap of his boots against the floor.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “You called for me, Captain?”

  The officer’s colorless eyes hadn’t even grazed the figure in black, that woman standing in the same stubborn spot where she’d stopped on coming in. You’d have said she was sculpted in black stone if it weren’t for those fixed and burning eyes, and also those lips that moved on their own when she spoke, independent, puppetlike.

  The captain gestured smoothly in her direction, as if to say, And this, what can you tell me about this? “This lady’s come to file a complaint concerning the burial of her father. Perhaps you’d be good enough to explain this matter to me.”

  The lieutenant’s voice boomed—harsh, decisive, disinterested. “It’s not her father, Captain. It wasn’t even a relative.”

  The captain scrutinized her to see how she’d react, but it was as if she’d heard the words before and now it made no sense to waste time listening or responding to them. That’s how these people saved their energy. They’d learned to do only what was absolutely necessary in order to survive in this heat, this sterile terrain.

  “All right, all right,” the captain barked half playfully. “What do you say about that?”

  Suddenly, the old woman executed a totally unexpected maneuver. Without a word, she sat down in the chair facing the desk, putting the lieutenant behind her and a little to the right. Then she pulled the chair a few inches closer and leaned toward the captain. When she spoke, her voice was low. It was clear that she didn’t want the lieutenant to hear, although her raspy tones could be caught even in the anteroom.

  “Do you think, Captain, that I can’t recognize my own father?”

  The lieutenant quickly intervened. “The body was discovered floating in the river. The women found it at dawn when they went to do their washing. It was totally unrecognizable. Not a clue to its identity.”

  “Fingerprints?” asked the captain, although he was thinking of other things, and the question was more or less automatic.

  “A prolonged stay in the water, Captain.”

  “And the facial features couldn’t be distinguished?” the captain muttered slowly, unable to take his eyes off the old woman.

  “The body and the face were badly battered by the river rocks, Captain. It had been exposed for several days. Someone must have dumped it in upriver, for reasons unknown to us.”

  “And the corpse showed no other signs of violence?”

  The lieutenant pointed toward a set of reports the captain had not yet opened. “It’s all accounted for in there, sir. Captain Gheorghakis decided, since we couldn’t clearly identify the deceased, to bury him as soon as possible in order to prevent contamination and other potential dangers.”

  “And her?”

  “The lady here asked for an interview with Captain Gheorghakis, who graciously agreed to the request. She declared, to our surprise, that the deceased was her father and that she wished to bury him. However, she provided no additional proof of the truth of her assertion. Captain Gheorghakis had no choice but to reject her claim. With your permission, sir, he felt he might be dealing with a subversive attempt to rally opponents of the regime, converting the body of some unknown vagabond into a martyr or hero.”

  “Of course,” agreed the captain firmly. “Or perhaps the guerrillas we
re settling accounts among themselves. As always, when they’re beaten. That happened in my region.”

  “That’s how it was interpreted, sir. In times like these we couldn’t risk a normal funeral.”

  “All right, all right.” The captain set down the report and folded his hands, clutching his fingers together until they were white. “And what do you say to this, madam?”

  “I lived with my father all my life, Captain.”

  The captain stood up impetuously. He felt big, was conscious of the smart shine of his boots, his muscles and nerves alive, his belt taut, his lungs drawing smoothly, his uniform a perfect fit. “And if you loved your father so much,” said the captain, “why didn’t you take better care of him? Why weren’t you by his side at the time of his death?”

  With a quickness no one had anticipated, the old woman pulled a locket from her black dress. It held a faded turn-of-the-century photo. She set it on the table, taking care not to let go of its chain. She clutched that chain as if it were a trigger.

  “This,” she said, as if it were explanation enough, “is my father.”

  The captain looked the portrait over without much interest. A young peasant like so many others, immortalized in a solemn moment. It was even difficult to establish a family resemblance. At that many years’ remove, what could there be but some vaguely familiar air? Of course, there was always the possibility of joking with the lieutenant over the only visible similarity, the mustache, which in the father’s case was thicker and bushier.

  “This photo,” the old woman stated abruptly, “was taken the day I was born.”

  The captain let a growing exasperation color his tone of voice. “Explain to me, then, how it’s possible that a man that age could appear in the river, just tell me that. What was your father up to that he should end up, according to you, tossed in a river?”

  The old woman picked up the locket but didn’t close it or put it away. Hanging from that bony hand, it balanced in the air as if swayed by a secret breeze.

  The captain followed the swinging for an instant.

  “They took him away from me, sir. They took him away one night, saying they’d bring him back in a few hours. It’s more than a year since then, sir.”

  The lieutenant interrupted. The resonance of his words left no room for argument. “This Mylonas was a notoriously dangerous element, Captain. He used to speak in the taverns, in the cafés, in the market. He was repeatedly warned that what he was saying could cause him problems. Given his age, nothing ever happened. Nonetheless, one day his family appeared before a judge and denounced the disappearance of the gentleman in question. They said he had been abducted. To a written inquiry from the court, Captain Gheorghakis responded that in this unit we had no news concerning the disappearance of anyone who answered to that description.” The lieutenant indicated the locket, the portrait, the face that had been captured nearly half a century ago. The old woman hastily put the locket back inside her shawl. “After that we paid no attention to the matter. As you know from your own experience, these sorts of people often use similar methods to carry out clandestine activities. They disappear for a while. Later they kill each other, or attack the police force, or suffer some accident, and then they try to implicate the government. Or our allies.”

  The captain opened the top drawer of the desk. His eyes rested for an instant on a photo of a woman with three children, his wife waiting for him in the capital. Then he took out a sheaf of papers and shut the drawer.

  “Do you know what this is, ma’am? This is the new amnesty decree. It’s just been enacted. If your father has had problems with the government in the past, he has nothing to fear. This law allows him to surrender without any further inconvenience.”

  The voice of the old woman came to them from some other time, some other throat, as if she were repeating something that had been expressed already to no purpose, that she or someone else would have to establish again some unknown day, in this country or another.

  “I explained to the judge that we sold a goat in order to make the journey. I explained to him, at that age, tell me, at his age, do you think he’d go off into the hills climbing around and playing tricks like a young man? You might as well accuse me of being dangerous, me, a good Christian who minds my own business and doesn’t get mixed up in politics.”

  The troublesome old bitch! She was managing to put him in the position of arbitrator, making him decide between the lieutenant’s version and hers. She was shrewder than she looked. He should have taken Gheorghakis’s advice. He should have confided more in the orderly. Now it was necessary to settle the matter. Right here. Right away.

  “Mrs. Angelos. The army’s duty is to serve the public. We try to maintain the best relations possible with the populace. But I must advise you that I’m very busy. I’ve just arrived at this post and there are urgent matters to attend to. Tell me once and for all, what do you want me to do? Why did you come to see me?”

  The old woman stood and walked to the door. From there, taking leave, knowing he would deny it, she said, “Very simple, sir. I want your soldiers to give me back the body.”

  “To give it back? Dig it up?”

  She gave a half nod.

  The captain had then, in that moment two weeks before, raised his voice and half winked at the lieutenant out of the corner of his eye as if to whisper, This is what I get for dealing with crazy old ladies, but not again, I swear to you never again.

  “Captain Gheorghakis made a decision on the matter, which I respect and support. Listen. Your father is probably alive. Imagine him arriving in town tomorrow and being told that the army had sanctioned such madness. It’s not possible, do you understand. You can’t mix our religion up with that kind of witchcraft.”

  “It’s clear, Captain”—the old woman breathed hard—“it’s clear that you are no Christian.” She looked him up and down with those coal-like unblinking eyes. “I’m going to tell you something, Captain.” She shook a long finger in the direction of the window. “Out there in the cemetery, on the hill, there’s a grave, my mother’s. Karoulos Mylonas, my father, deserves a funeral that God would smile on, sir, a regular funeral. It doesn’t matter to me how long I have to wait, someday I’m going to give it to him. I’m going to bury him with a priest and with his name. With all the letters of the name he gave me before I married and had children. Up there, on the hill, in the cemetery, next to my mother’s grave, that’s where I’m going to bury him.”

  She shut the door and was gone.

  “Just wait,” the lieutenant said, after a pause. “She didn’t even tell you about the rest of the family.”

  “The rest? What rest?”

  “The rest of the family. The men, at least. Six months before what happened to her father, it so happens her husband and two sons were taken away. They haven’t turned up yet either.”

  The captain scrutinized the closed door as if the old woman was still standing there. He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to the lieutenant, who declined, muttering with a half smile, No thanks, not me, but thanks anyway.

  “Six months before.” The captain lit up. “Then I guess we’ll have to forgive these outbursts. For the moment. What do you say, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant said nothing.

  ii

  About a hundred yards from the river, where a path starts down, the lieutenant found the doctor waiting. The doctor was smoking quietly, in the shade of a short but wide-branching cypress, trying to catch a glimpse, through the smoke, of the river murmuring along nearby and the group of women waiting below.

  “I thought I’d hold off,” said the doctor, snuffing out the butt and getting up.

  “You don’t seem to be in much of a hurry,” the lieutenant observed. “But dead men don’t run away, so why should we worry?”

  “A second body in the same place. I can’t believe it.”

  “You’ll believe it,” said the lieutenant, “when you touch it. Let’s go.”


  He signaled the four soldiers to head down first.

  The women—there must have been eight or nine of them—stayed at a certain distance from the corpse, forming something like a wary, irregular semicircle. They were all in mourning, except for one young girl, all motionless as if they were shrubs that someone had planted here centuries ago anticipating this moment: the body of a man facedown on this beach of stones. When the lieutenant, the doctor, and the four soldiers approached within twenty paces, the whole group came alive, a wave of slow movement like water flowing into a pond, finding its level, like a ripple with no beginning or end.

  The lieutenant stepped out ahead, leading the way.

  “Full of surprises, this river,” he said quite loudly. “I don’t suppose anyone’s moved the body, right?” And since none of them answered, he repeated the question more emphatically: Had anyone moved the body, yes or no?

  The women shook their heads no.

  “And which one of you found it?”

  There was an inclusive, total, multiple gesture indicating all and none, a restrained dance of hands, shoulders, linked black skirts against the line of the river, a motion that ran through them and then stopped. All, they’d all found it together this morning.

  The doctor squatted beside the body. Without even touching it, he said, “He’s dead, no doubt about it. It’s been several days, at least.”

  “Doctor,” said the lieutenant, “we can all see that. I hope you can give us a little more specific information.”

  “It has to be turned over.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  The doctor called on one of the soldiers and showed him the direction in which he wanted the body turned.

  The women said nothing when they saw the face, when they saw the pulp that had once been its face, decayed and wasted by the pounding and soaking.

  “Hey, you.” The lieutenant suddenly called the girl, the only one in the group who stood out because she wasn’t wearing black. “Come over here.”

  The girl came a little closer, head down, eyes hidden, eclipsed.